Blodwedd's Lament

Based on the Celtic myth of Blodwedd, who was created from flowers to wed a king. She was not faithful to him, however, and took another man as her lover. Her lover killed her husband, but with the help of a sorcerer her husband returned form the dead, killed her lover and had her turned into an owl as punishment.

They say love’s a blessing, they say love’s a curse, They say choice is a freedom and freedoms a choice But my freedom was hollow, my choices brought sorrow And love gave me talons and twisted my voice

Who, who, who was I But May rain and root of the flowered hillside I was as I was made I was as I had grown Petelled and perfect Whole and alone.

Hoof beats on the mountain Roots receive vibrations Moon reveals two men On a sly midnight excursion Here they come now Cross the threshold From deep oak shadow To rippling silver meadow Darkness hanging on unrevealed intentions Swinging off horses, knee deep in fern Swords at their belts sheathed in iron In creeps the world beyond Intruding on my dream-like refuge Turns leaf to limb, fragrance to thought Consciousness constructed, intuition forgot.

Who, who, who were those That from bloomless mountains that bleak morning rode; An ancient enchanter of grandest degree A king of great splendor and high heraldry And behind him a maiden, lovely as the dawn Her eyes still like violets, but her harmony gone.

Once I was silent, mere substance, cycle, spirit, Secure in graceful regularity Pristine in purposeful passivity -uprooted, concentrated, converted To an aching, obeying perceiver Able by creation to adore, judge, murder, Limited to loyalty by that same creator. Proportioned, possessed, prized, Contorted, controlled, customized Given feet, forbidden to wander Given a voice, forbidden to wonder Given a conscience, forbidden to judge Given a heart and expected to love.

Who, who, who was he But freedom, choice love One man of all three But foremost an option An action, sweet escape A first far-flung measure to forge my own fate.

Was it love or rebellion I sought in his arms? Though handsome, by far His greatest of charms Was not his dark eyes, his wit or his laughter but how he held no claim as my master.

Not for love of me Did my husband take offense But for the breach Of indefinable dominance A kings wife, a treasure A maiden of flowers Composed for his pleasure And a trophy of honor. Please, punish me, Your disgrace of a bride Acknowledge that she Had the power to decide.

Who, who, who were we But beings entangled By our own humanity. Flowers or flesh, Bloom, conceive, die, They asked for their forms No more than I.

Of course it was unthinkable To hold my heart accountable The thief, the man responsible He died in hot blood Impaled by a spear That had made it through both death and stone Hurled by the cold hand of my former captor Who, finding no dignity in death, Simply returned, unexpected, uninvited To return the unspeakable favor.

Keeper and lover destroyed Their legacy a re-opened grave And a blood-stained boulder The creator left to his shame, Faced down by his errors, I, available for blame, got feathers.

Who, who, who am I A soundless swooper With wide amber eyes A skulker, a stalker A sinuous shadow That drifts through the dark Above flowerless meadows Kept in a cage of muscle and bone Bound in a body that isn’t my own Barred from the sunlight, I weaken and wither My feathers drop off And like petals, scatter.

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